Summer came. For the book thief, everything was going nicely. For me, the sky was the color of Jews. When their bodies had finished scouring for gaps in the door, their souls rose up. When their fingernails had scratched at the wood and in some cases were nailed into it by the sheer force of desperation, their spirits came toward me, into my arms, and we climbed out of those shower facilities, onto the roof and up, into eternity's certain breadth. They just kept feeding me. Minute after minute. Shower after shower.
"Just a shower. If you want me to stay on the opposite side, I will. I won't kiss. I won't touch." Echo flashes that siren smile. "What if I want to kiss you?" "You're trying to kill me, aren't you?"
Forget about showering with my fellow students in Tribeca Alternative's prison-style showers--one nozzle for four to six girls at a time--in the locker room. It was impossible to work up a sweat during what passed for physical education class at TAHS, so there was no need to shower, anyway. Well, impossible for me, considering that, in the past, whenever a volleyball or whatever came near me, I'd always make sure to step calmly away to avoid it. See? No sweat. No need for a shower. Problem solved.
When you live with a woman you learn something every day. So far I have learned that long hair will clog up the shower drain before you can say 'Liquid-Plumr';